


As Bees In Honey Drown

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary's past took the spotlight when it was revealed to Sherlock and John. But Molly has a secret too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Bees In Honey Drown

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea exactly how long this will be or where it is going. All I know is that it's an idea that's been knocking around in my brain for a few months and is demanding to be written. With five months (or more) til the new season, it seemed like the time.
> 
> Title credit to the clever playwright Douglas Carter Beane.

The Springfield Ultra Compact 1911 handgun was her favorite for the rather inadvisable reason that she liked the way it looked. A horrible reason to choose a weapon. Fortunately, the Springfield also happened to be a quick, easy piece that had served her well over the years.

It was silver and charcoal, detailed, but not overly fancy. It wouldn’t do to be flashy. The size fit her petite hands perfectly. The solid weight of the weapon nestled into her palm like it was made for her. Sometimes cold, sometimes hot, but all power. 

She was insanely aware of the phallic connotations of the musings on her weapon. It was a habit of hers that never seemed to die.

Perhaps it was because she was constantly surrounded by men … in both of her professions. She gained power in holding her Springfield, power that put her on the same level as all of the smarmy, blue-balled, power-hungry tits that Jim decided to employ. Not that they would have ever dared try something on her when he was still around, but if they had she would’ve been more than happy to demonstrate the reloading style of the Springfield. And its accuracy.

The weapon never made an appearance anywhere near Barts, except for the once. Most people there would have thought she’d lost her mind if they saw her with it. She would be lucky if she had five minutes before security was on her and she was marched quickly to the psych ward. She wouldn’t have been in there for long; Jim would have seen to that.

Dear Jim.

Dear, dead as a doornail, rotting in the ground Jim.

If her estimations were correct, he would be mostly moldy bone by now. The casket was nowhere near top of the line and she was perfectly aware of what jolly old England’s earth could accomplish in a few short years. 

She’d never known if his plan to kill himself had been serious or not until it actually happened. After she’d dropped the Sherlock look-a-like body out of the fourth floor of Barts, she’d dashed up to the roof while everyone else was busy executing the Holmes brothers’ plan. 

To see the look on Sherlock’s face if he had been aware that she was playing both sides of the field that day. By that time, every word said to Jim and every action on his part had been a flaming lie. She’d almost felt guilty, staring down as his rapidly paling face, trying not to get brain matter and blood on her shoe as stepped around him. 

The Springfield had been heavy in her lab coat pocket. Thank goodness they made those pockets deep and wide. 

“He really did it?”

Mycroft Holmes’ voice was loud enough to be heard over the commotion on the street, but not really reaching the volume of casual conversation.

“If he hadn’t, I would have.”

“That was never part of the plan, Miss Hooper, and it’s a good thing it didn’t come to that.”

Of course Mycroft had known, for some months, that Molly’s allegiance did not begin with Sherlock Holmes. She suspected his informants might’ve provided him with evidence long before she’d wandered into his private office, looking for sanctuary; he never said one way or the other. He certainly knew about Mary Morstan long before his brother managed to uncover her secret. Hell, Molly had recognized her (though at the time she didn’t know how) the first time she met the woman.

“It’s being investigated,” Mycroft said when Molly raised the issue.

A.G.R.A.

International assassin.

Then it dawned on her where she’d seen Mary’s face before - through the binoculars Molly had held as she watched a group of Jim’s enemies being picked off one by one before Jim even had the pleasure of doing it himself. They’d run off with  £ 500,000 of his money, after all. 

She couldn’t decide what was more impressive, Mary’s aim or her remodeled life. 

Mary was allowed to pass under the radar - her work had been freelance and (mostly) on the up and up, as far as assassin work went. She killed for money, but she killed the dregs of the earth.

Molly had been on probation for quite a while. She was willing to jump through the hoops that were required of her; she knew it was a large stain on her life. Fortunately for her, Mycroft was accommodating to her one request in the bargain.

“Don’t tell Sherlock,” she’d said firmly.

Mycroft had simply raised a manicured eyebrow.

“He’ll find out eventually,” he warned her. “You know how he operates.”

“So let me do what I can for him until then.”

Hands were shaken. Deals were struck. She helped put Jim in the ground.

And then … life moved on, in the strangest ways. Engaged. Attending weddings. A promotion. 

God help her, she’d remained more in love with Sherlock Holmes than ever. It became harder to be around him and try to forge ahead with her life. If he knew, he’d never forgive her, and she could never imagine being with him without divulging the truth. 

She got reckless sometimes. She dropped hints when she thought he might be onto her secret.

“Not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths.”

Heart in her throat.

_ Please know. Please just tell me you know so I can stop living this lie. _

“Maybe it’s just my type.”

If he did know, he wouldn’t release her from her self-inflicted torture.

He was the glaring source of the great majority of her torture, directly and indirectly.

Drug addict. Shooting victim. Murderer.

Constantly on the brink of throwing his life away. The life she had worked so hard, so very hard, to save. She’d put everything on the line for him and all he did was flirt with death and drag more dangerous people into the swirling vortex that was his life, bringing them closer and closer to her until the inevitable happened.

It may have been Jim’s face that was broadcast on every screen in London, but it wasn’t his face that walked through the door to the lab.

What she would've given to have her Springfield with her that day.

  
  



End file.
